What if you scratch the word Fire until you get “Untitled (Overall Composition).”

The pouring begins as a drizzle of effacements, but will that pyramidal eye still pick its way among the dribbled arteries of a new ordinance?

“Guardians of the Secret”: a hot capillary pucker of eyes in the chest, the incipient drip is the secret of the insistent quadrant and the guardians are what? a splash gathering in the wrist, or the impulsive spectacle?

What could have been Moby-Dick shudders into “Pasiphaë” with a click or thud of coupling trains; everything sifts into the possible all at once: here’s a knuckle, an ankle, a wrist, three blue udders and a nostril nearby, a zigzag where once was a mind, a smear begetting the consummate.

Postwar means a dirty flash of Matisse, or does the slumped oval make this one Gothic? What does a pulse confounding a bone do? In this vista of heckled complicity, what is this protest, this pause that means figures are bound to emerge?

“Free Form” says Take Me, I’m Yours—no form’s free, but freed into the next, like a glass eye searing the artery as it noses up into your heart.

These could be aerial recon photos of bombed-out cities.

This web of “Phosphorescence” is how we are made, made of the comet, the blue thrall, the middle plummet coveting bottom and top, inside and out all at once. Fat “A” crouches in another “Untitled.” Sometimes lines come and go from a mouth—leak and wander; sometimes a squiggle reverts to a medical chart: its transparencies the pull-away skins of an etch-a-sketch mystic writing pad.

Now we come into the country we know—spider arabesque. Grim tutorials of chance subsiding in a spellbound squeal, Queequeg’s casket itching with hieroglyphs inside and out till it’s all inside-out. A tattoo of dunk. Eye chowder. Shudder and chatter. What is embellishment now?

What’s over, what’s under? What’s up, what’s down?

The cut-outs are guzzling glass and nails (the better to see you with, my dear). A skittish red; and the wiggle of the puddle makes pastoral queasy, filtered through this arterial perimeter where coagulates relent, and the winter’s tale like a glazed saucer’s beginning to crack. Every gazing face a fissure, a drop-let of pigments gathering clots from the smear. Everything is big, and yet the tiny secrecy of lineation shudders with intensity. Rapture on a floor daubed up as bent. A gob of yellow pregnant with a white swirl. Scarlet veins a soluble distress. When at last a figure appears, an ossuary is near. Something’s likely to be bones. Puffs are symptoms, narcotic flagellants. Some of the smudges are birds and they fly away. “Number 23” is a musical note. And as ever the gaping mouth.

Altamira chirps hello in “1A.” And in 1953 there’s that eye again, lurking in the triangle. “The Deep” is trying to be milked. “White Light.” All a gape, and again. All this “hectic pigment” magnifies the bone deposits, wouldn’t you say? From drizzle to dazzle to drunk and dead, the unconscious paraded is boiling up a serum. Humbled and assessed is how these paintings make you feel, their light in which you appear, then disappear.

Thug.      Bundle.      Rapture.      Throng.
 

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